Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto > Painting The White To Gray
Never good enough for you
1 reviewSometimes, pain is unbearable, and people need a way to escape. But diferent people cope in different ways. Cutting, Suicide attempts, Alcoholism
-1OOC
STORY TITLE: Painting the White to Gray
CHAPTER TITLE: Never Good Enough For You
AUTHOR: oturan_ikamazu
RATING: T (rating may increase in further chapters)
WARNING: Suicidal tendencies, self-mutilation, homosexuality, bisexuality, pervert-Kakashi, angst-Naruto, Naruto POV
STORY SUMMARY: Sometimes, pain is unbearable, and people need a way to escape. But diferent people cope in different ways.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: Naruto tries to commit suicide and fails, so he tries to escape from his pain and finds it more difficult than he thought.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing that isn't mine. (If I did, I'm scared of what kind of characters I'd turn Naruto and Sasuke into. Scary thought, ne?)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not quite sure what to say maybe just review please.
And, please, don't say that the character(s) hasn't gone through enough to try to commit suicide, because you'd be surprised what can push a person over the edge, what to some can seem small and unimportant while to others can be the thing that pushes them over the edge.
If you don't understand the reason for suicide, or the reason doesn't seem clear to you, just ask, and I will do my best to explain.
Also, this is a multi-chaptered story. YES, I am TRYING to write and commit to writing chapters and updating - hopefully on a regular basis. If I fail at this, I am truly sorry. I hope you will be able to forgive me.
Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter. I hope to update shortly!
-
"I think a lot of what is going on with kids who get pushed too far and attempt either murder of suicide is that they are trying to deal with their own non-existence for the people who are supposed to care most for them."
-- RICHARD RUSSO
-
People don't talk about suicide despite the fact that's it's the third leading cause of death following accidents and homicide; it's the second cause of death for teenagers. Everyday, suicide rates increase, and yet nobody talks about it. Parents talk about safe sex and drug use frequently - at least, alert (and smart) parents do - but never taking one's own life.
However, with the rising number of teenagers turning to suicide, it should be added to the list of "Talks". Any good parent would; mine never did.
Suicide is a weird thing, a strange thought. And I can understand why it's such a taboo subject for so many people. The mere idea that someone would want to kill himself is... well, the idea isn't very open for discussion. It's just not something "normal" people talk about. But it's "normal" people who usually end up trying it: the little boy down the street who always smiles; the straight-A student everyone thinks is a nerd; the girl one seat over who always laughs; the silent boy in the back corner who likes to look out the window.
It could be anyone - someone who's tried, someone who's planning to. But, since nobody speaks about suicide, those people who need to talk can't. And oftentimes, teenagers don't feel as though they can talk to their parents, who are usually part of the problem; sometimes, they can't even talk to their friends.
Since this leaves so many options closed - guidance counselors and doctors don't always help - suicide seems to become a better idea, as it seems nobody is willing to listen, to hear about the problems that make life seem so worthless.
My parents never listened. They already had my entire future planned out; it seemed to fall apart the day I brought home my first C. After that I never seemed to be able to do anything good enough - I figured 'why try?' They weren't praising me for the good work I did; they didn't say anything when I tried something new, something they wanted for me.
When I discovered that wasn't what I wanted to do, I started doing other stuff - that only gave them the incentive to call me names and talk about my "impudence" to their friends: I wasn't good enough; I was lazy, good-for-nothing, and destroying my life.
According to my father, writers were "lazy and stupid", and half of them were either "addicted to drugs, or drunk". But that's what I wanted to be: a writer. Unfortunately, my mother and - especially - father didn't have a very high opinion of my occupational choice; I stopped caring what they thought a long time ago, sometime after I moved out, which they weren't too thrilled about.
When I told them I was getting an apartment of my own we got into a huge dispute about capabilities and insecurities. I was "incapable and insecure", unable to fully depend upon myself - I was too needy, I'd come "crawling back home in no time". I love when parents have the utmost faith in their children.
When I tried suicide, I was still living with them; they'd been talking about my failure as a son earlier, thinking I couldn't hear through my bedroom door. They said some bad things - I don't think they really meant it to come out sounding so hurtful, but I hadn't had a good day, so I was already depressed. When I heard, I suppose it pushed me a little too far over the edge.
I'd thought about it before, but I never thought things would get so bad that I'd actually consider and follow through. I remember taking the knife my dad had given me the Christmas before, thinking how wonderful it'd be for him to see me using it; it didn't bother me that they were in the next room - maybe they'd come running when they heard my body crash into the dresser and hit the floor.
And they did, looking furious as ever until they saw the gash in my wrist, my knife held in the opposite hand, soiled red and shiny. My mother looked ready to cry; dad rolled his eyes and scoffed - if I'd wanted to die I would've, is what he said. This was just another failure to him.
After that, Mom could never really look me in the face, and Dad growled and got defensive when I tried to talk to him - I was isolated and alone, a disappointment to the only people who ever really mattered.
I didn't understand it - what was I doing wrong? I try to kill myself, they withdraw; I need someone to talk to; there's no one around. Had I any real friends, I may have spoken with them, but they were all people my parents had picked out for me to hang around - all of them seemed fake, stuffy, too good for people who didn't have at least a thousand dollars as pocket change.
I was surprised they even considered me a candidate of "friendship"; none of them knew that I moved, that I had tried to kill myself, that I was a poor white boy with family issues. The only thing they knew about me was that I was an overactive blonde with way too much energy. And our little group of "friends" only had one thing in common: the need to overcome the burdens of our families and make a life of our own.
So far, I was the only one taking the steps to leading my own life, to making my own choices; it was a special time for me, but nobody seemed to understand that. Sometimes... it felt no one ever would.
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The apartment I moved into was small, but since it was just me it's size was comfortable enough. I didn't have many possessions - a few pictures, my bed, clothing and such - so it wasn't very hard, and it didn't take very long. It was actually quite homey, warm colors decorating the walls and nice neighbors bringing home-cooked welcoming gifs. It was a nice change from home.
I'd never bothered telling my parents where I was; I figured they'd know where to go if they needed me badly enough.
My landlord was friendly, too, though a bit of a pervert - he was always carrying around an orange book, an age warning on the cover. It seemed he was always up to no good. But he was nice, and he seemed to understand what I was going through even though I had told him nothing of my life. I think his life motto is "Look beneath the underneath", or something like that. Actually, I think he's kind of crazy.
Kakashi - that's my landlord - was bisexual, always saying that life's too short to leave anything out, even if it is the love - or carnal passion, as it usually was - of another man. And he flaunted it gladly, flirting with both married and single neighbors. He told me he was already taken, though that had never stopped him before, so he continued; he never meant anything he said when flirting anyway. He wouldn't tell me his boyfriend's name.
It was summer when I moved, so I was looking forward to going to school again - it would be my senior year, a chance to make new friends, real friends who didn't care that I had no money, didn't care that I wasn't always happy.
My classes were easy, but I'd have to work hard to get the grades I'd need to get into the college I wanted, but I was willing to work for what I wanted; I didn't have my parents breathing down my back, either, so it wouldn't be as difficult to mark my own path.
My best class - my favorite - was English, with Iruka-sensei teaching. He really liked my papers, my whole style of writing - he said I had real potential, that he'd work with me on my mistakes, break through my boundaries.
He was a good teacher, a bit shy and lenient, and not very open about his homosexuality - which I had only guessed on accident. I'd never really thought he was gay, but at the blush and stutter, I knew I was correct in my assumption. He wouldn't tell me his boyfriend's name, either, but from the scowl and muttering of perverts and smut-books, I think I could guess.
I had two good people to turn to if I needed help with anything, but I think it's ironic that they happened to be dating each other.
Several times I ran into Iruka out of school, and he was always smiling and happy - I couldn't help but wonder if he had any problems with his family when he was younger, if he'd ever tried to kill himself. But I never really got around to asking - I didn't want to ruin his good mood, or make him worry needlessly.
I thought maybe making a new life for myself, moving out of my parents reach, making new friends, starting afresh, would make it easier to forget my pain, forget the fact that I had tried to commit suicide.
But it seemed to haunt me everywhere I turned, so I could not forget. I needed something else to ease the pain, anything, so long as I didn't hurt anymore.
-
To Be Continued...
CHAPTER TITLE: Never Good Enough For You
AUTHOR: oturan_ikamazu
RATING: T (rating may increase in further chapters)
WARNING: Suicidal tendencies, self-mutilation, homosexuality, bisexuality, pervert-Kakashi, angst-Naruto, Naruto POV
STORY SUMMARY: Sometimes, pain is unbearable, and people need a way to escape. But diferent people cope in different ways.
CHAPTER SUMMARY: Naruto tries to commit suicide and fails, so he tries to escape from his pain and finds it more difficult than he thought.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing that isn't mine. (If I did, I'm scared of what kind of characters I'd turn Naruto and Sasuke into. Scary thought, ne?)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not quite sure what to say maybe just review please.
And, please, don't say that the character(s) hasn't gone through enough to try to commit suicide, because you'd be surprised what can push a person over the edge, what to some can seem small and unimportant while to others can be the thing that pushes them over the edge.
If you don't understand the reason for suicide, or the reason doesn't seem clear to you, just ask, and I will do my best to explain.
Also, this is a multi-chaptered story. YES, I am TRYING to write and commit to writing chapters and updating - hopefully on a regular basis. If I fail at this, I am truly sorry. I hope you will be able to forgive me.
Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter. I hope to update shortly!
-
"I think a lot of what is going on with kids who get pushed too far and attempt either murder of suicide is that they are trying to deal with their own non-existence for the people who are supposed to care most for them."
-- RICHARD RUSSO
-
People don't talk about suicide despite the fact that's it's the third leading cause of death following accidents and homicide; it's the second cause of death for teenagers. Everyday, suicide rates increase, and yet nobody talks about it. Parents talk about safe sex and drug use frequently - at least, alert (and smart) parents do - but never taking one's own life.
However, with the rising number of teenagers turning to suicide, it should be added to the list of "Talks". Any good parent would; mine never did.
Suicide is a weird thing, a strange thought. And I can understand why it's such a taboo subject for so many people. The mere idea that someone would want to kill himself is... well, the idea isn't very open for discussion. It's just not something "normal" people talk about. But it's "normal" people who usually end up trying it: the little boy down the street who always smiles; the straight-A student everyone thinks is a nerd; the girl one seat over who always laughs; the silent boy in the back corner who likes to look out the window.
It could be anyone - someone who's tried, someone who's planning to. But, since nobody speaks about suicide, those people who need to talk can't. And oftentimes, teenagers don't feel as though they can talk to their parents, who are usually part of the problem; sometimes, they can't even talk to their friends.
Since this leaves so many options closed - guidance counselors and doctors don't always help - suicide seems to become a better idea, as it seems nobody is willing to listen, to hear about the problems that make life seem so worthless.
My parents never listened. They already had my entire future planned out; it seemed to fall apart the day I brought home my first C. After that I never seemed to be able to do anything good enough - I figured 'why try?' They weren't praising me for the good work I did; they didn't say anything when I tried something new, something they wanted for me.
When I discovered that wasn't what I wanted to do, I started doing other stuff - that only gave them the incentive to call me names and talk about my "impudence" to their friends: I wasn't good enough; I was lazy, good-for-nothing, and destroying my life.
According to my father, writers were "lazy and stupid", and half of them were either "addicted to drugs, or drunk". But that's what I wanted to be: a writer. Unfortunately, my mother and - especially - father didn't have a very high opinion of my occupational choice; I stopped caring what they thought a long time ago, sometime after I moved out, which they weren't too thrilled about.
When I told them I was getting an apartment of my own we got into a huge dispute about capabilities and insecurities. I was "incapable and insecure", unable to fully depend upon myself - I was too needy, I'd come "crawling back home in no time". I love when parents have the utmost faith in their children.
When I tried suicide, I was still living with them; they'd been talking about my failure as a son earlier, thinking I couldn't hear through my bedroom door. They said some bad things - I don't think they really meant it to come out sounding so hurtful, but I hadn't had a good day, so I was already depressed. When I heard, I suppose it pushed me a little too far over the edge.
I'd thought about it before, but I never thought things would get so bad that I'd actually consider and follow through. I remember taking the knife my dad had given me the Christmas before, thinking how wonderful it'd be for him to see me using it; it didn't bother me that they were in the next room - maybe they'd come running when they heard my body crash into the dresser and hit the floor.
And they did, looking furious as ever until they saw the gash in my wrist, my knife held in the opposite hand, soiled red and shiny. My mother looked ready to cry; dad rolled his eyes and scoffed - if I'd wanted to die I would've, is what he said. This was just another failure to him.
After that, Mom could never really look me in the face, and Dad growled and got defensive when I tried to talk to him - I was isolated and alone, a disappointment to the only people who ever really mattered.
I didn't understand it - what was I doing wrong? I try to kill myself, they withdraw; I need someone to talk to; there's no one around. Had I any real friends, I may have spoken with them, but they were all people my parents had picked out for me to hang around - all of them seemed fake, stuffy, too good for people who didn't have at least a thousand dollars as pocket change.
I was surprised they even considered me a candidate of "friendship"; none of them knew that I moved, that I had tried to kill myself, that I was a poor white boy with family issues. The only thing they knew about me was that I was an overactive blonde with way too much energy. And our little group of "friends" only had one thing in common: the need to overcome the burdens of our families and make a life of our own.
So far, I was the only one taking the steps to leading my own life, to making my own choices; it was a special time for me, but nobody seemed to understand that. Sometimes... it felt no one ever would.
0
0-1-0
0-1-2-1-0
0-1-2-3-2-1-0
0-1-2-1-0
0-1-0
0
The apartment I moved into was small, but since it was just me it's size was comfortable enough. I didn't have many possessions - a few pictures, my bed, clothing and such - so it wasn't very hard, and it didn't take very long. It was actually quite homey, warm colors decorating the walls and nice neighbors bringing home-cooked welcoming gifs. It was a nice change from home.
I'd never bothered telling my parents where I was; I figured they'd know where to go if they needed me badly enough.
My landlord was friendly, too, though a bit of a pervert - he was always carrying around an orange book, an age warning on the cover. It seemed he was always up to no good. But he was nice, and he seemed to understand what I was going through even though I had told him nothing of my life. I think his life motto is "Look beneath the underneath", or something like that. Actually, I think he's kind of crazy.
Kakashi - that's my landlord - was bisexual, always saying that life's too short to leave anything out, even if it is the love - or carnal passion, as it usually was - of another man. And he flaunted it gladly, flirting with both married and single neighbors. He told me he was already taken, though that had never stopped him before, so he continued; he never meant anything he said when flirting anyway. He wouldn't tell me his boyfriend's name.
It was summer when I moved, so I was looking forward to going to school again - it would be my senior year, a chance to make new friends, real friends who didn't care that I had no money, didn't care that I wasn't always happy.
My classes were easy, but I'd have to work hard to get the grades I'd need to get into the college I wanted, but I was willing to work for what I wanted; I didn't have my parents breathing down my back, either, so it wouldn't be as difficult to mark my own path.
My best class - my favorite - was English, with Iruka-sensei teaching. He really liked my papers, my whole style of writing - he said I had real potential, that he'd work with me on my mistakes, break through my boundaries.
He was a good teacher, a bit shy and lenient, and not very open about his homosexuality - which I had only guessed on accident. I'd never really thought he was gay, but at the blush and stutter, I knew I was correct in my assumption. He wouldn't tell me his boyfriend's name, either, but from the scowl and muttering of perverts and smut-books, I think I could guess.
I had two good people to turn to if I needed help with anything, but I think it's ironic that they happened to be dating each other.
Several times I ran into Iruka out of school, and he was always smiling and happy - I couldn't help but wonder if he had any problems with his family when he was younger, if he'd ever tried to kill himself. But I never really got around to asking - I didn't want to ruin his good mood, or make him worry needlessly.
I thought maybe making a new life for myself, moving out of my parents reach, making new friends, starting afresh, would make it easier to forget my pain, forget the fact that I had tried to commit suicide.
But it seemed to haunt me everywhere I turned, so I could not forget. I needed something else to ease the pain, anything, so long as I didn't hurt anymore.
-
To Be Continued...
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